


Where Do We Draw the Line?

by ProPinkist



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Angst, Azran Legacy Spoilers, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Miracle Mask Spoilers, aka Layton Unintentionally Bungles Emotional Support But It Still Nearly Works, and Clive is a master actor but oops he let his trauma show, as does the implications of the future setup being real because just... ouch, hopefully this doesn't feel wildly unrealistic and overly emotional ahaha... i tried, irony: the fic, keyword: try, major prequel trilogy spoilers, probably should have waited to replay the prequels first but I Didn't, so close yet so far, these two have so much in common and it pains me to think about, wherein both Hershel and Clive have trauma and try to help each other through it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27751660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProPinkist/pseuds/ProPinkist
Summary: Ten years into the future, Hershel Layton has thrown away everything to try to change the past, or so he is told. It is a strikingly familiar scenario, a frighteningly believable one - for him to follow that same path of despair, repeat the same, doomed cycle, in a feeble attempt at happiness, no matter what destruction is left in his wake.Hershel fears learning what has become of those left behind.
Relationships: Clive & Hershel Layton
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Where Do We Draw the Line?

**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of feelings about... things. about parallels. and about what-if's in the series. yes. < / 3
> 
> that aside, I'm pretty satisfied with how this came out, I think. I walked a very thin line with Clive here; hopefully not /too/ much suspension of disbelief is necessary when it comes to his knowledge... But in order to pose as future Luke, I have to figure that he did an extraordinary amount of digging in order to not fall into any traps when talking to them; there surely aren't a lack of npcs for him to have gathered information from, so I imagine it's quite possible he knows some pretty noteworthy stuff, and the implications of that to me are /fascinating/. Not to mention he's just... scarily intelligent and very quick on the draw. I started writing this just with the initial question Hershel poses in mind and for it to be more about that, since the idea wouldn't let me go, but in the end it more turned into a Clive comfort session..... I guess there's nothing wrong with that, though. :^) I tried to use the Luke labels as little as possible, but someone let me know if it's hard to distinguish between them.

_“An evil genius who isn’t Don Paolo…? Wait… y-you can’t possibly mean—!”_

_“Luke, no—"_

_“That’s right. I’m talking about none other than Hershel Layton himself.”_

Little did Future Luke know, he had been incorrect about what his younger self was about to say. Nor had he noticed the sigh of relief that had escaped him upon hearing his _own_ name, ironically enough, shocking as it was. But there was no doubt in his mind that he and his current apprentice had come to the exact same realization at the exact same time.

There was only one other person _(anymore)_ who could possibly fit such a description, and the sheer thought of it was enough to make him _sick_.

“Professor, are you alright? You look pale.”

Hershel started, glancing towards Future Luke, who was staring at him intently. “My apologies, my boy… I was simply lost in thought.”

They were sitting at one of the corner, closed-off tables inside the arcade’s restaurant, waiting for Luke’s associate to arrive, in order to plan their next move. The younger Luke sat a few tables away, happily occupied by a juicy steak, and seemingly having moved on entirely from the earlier conversation, to his relief. With the boy distracted as he was, and the relative privacy, now was likely the only chance he would have to speak to the older Luke alone, before things grew chaotic…

“Well, can’t say that I blame you. It is a lot to take in, after all.”

…but _oh,_ he had never in a million years imagined how _impossible_ that would be.

“Hnn…”

Then again, Hershel had never even imagined he would be in this situation at all. It went without saying that not everyone got to meet the future selves of the people they knew, and learn what awaited them ten years from their present… for better or for worse.

And yet, believe it or not, here he was. Perhaps eventually he would find definitive proof that this was all a farce, but for right now, though he could scarcely comprehend it, everything seemed incredibly real, almost _frighteningly_ so, no matter how much he wanted to deny everything his former apprentice had told them… It was so hard to think of an explanation for how all that he saw _couldn’t_ be real. And so as long as the possibility existed, no matter how small, that they truly _were_ in the future, he absolutely had to find out all that he could while this golden opportunity remained.

“Professor, if something is bothering you, just tell me. I’ll try to answer what I can.”

He _had_ to.

Had to find the answers to the burning questions that had been eating away at him slowly for months, over a _year_ now, ever since that fateful day _(the_ third _in his life, to be precise)_ that it terrified Hershel to think he may never find _closure_ for.

_(…and yet, asking terrified him even more.)_

“W-Well…”

Clasping his hands together atop the table, trying to keep them from shaking, Hershel took a steadying breath. Nearby, Luke’s full attention was on him, clearly waiting for whatever would be forthcoming. It was comforting, somehow, and yet his heart ached at the thought of stirring up such painful memories again, just as he hadn’t wanted his own Luke to recall it all – while the events were much more distant for Future Luke if his identity was to be believed, he had experienced them nonetheless, and they weren’t something that one would ever truly recover from, no matter how much time had passed.

Especially if those very events were the seeds for his mentor deteriorating in such a way.

_(the idea would have seemed preposterous,_ unfathomable _to him up until now, but didn’t the very fact that it all still haunted him so much_ prove _that it just might be possible? That he would_ jump _at the possibility of time travel; that he couldn’t trust himself, didn’t_ know _himself, no matter how much he thought he did?_

_That, as much as it disgusted him to say, he was doomed to follow in their footsteps of madness, by some cruel, inescapable fate?_

_Would he really wish so badly to try to change it all, even if it meant he could never meet—)_

“This was over ten years ago for you, now, but… in all this time… has there been any sign of my…… my brother?”

_~~(but perhaps it~~ _ ~~would _be better that way. Not for him, but for_ them. _)_~~

“Brother…? _Oh_ …”

Instantly, Luke turned pale himself, matching exactly how he felt, as he inhaled sharply. Mouth opening and closing a few times, a torrent of different emotions washed over his face, before he finally closed his eyes, his voice low and serious as he spoke. “You mean _him.”_

“…Yes. Descole.”

Just saying the _name_ again after so long, calling him _brother,_ threatened to _strangle_ him. Swallowing, Hershel pushed down the brim of his hat, feeling smaller than he had in ages. “I… We never heard from him again, after all that chaos. Not that it’s been that long, for me, but…”

He trailed off, helplessly. Luke stared down at nothing for a long while, expression incomprehensible, clearly deep in thought.

Finally, he looked up, and spoke.

“…I’m sorry to say, Professor, but I’m afraid that hasn’t changed, at least not that I’m aware of. But as I said before, you grew apart from me soon after the time machine incident, so… It’s entirely possible that you encountered him on your own, without me there to witness it. All I can say for certain is that there have been no more large-scale incidents involving him, and his schemes.”

_And that’s that._

Hershel let out a long, slow breath, leaning back in his seat, his hands lying limply in front of him. It was a completely reasonable answer, one that he had known was possible; highly likely, even. He hadn’t been expecting anything different, deep down. It was almost a _relief_ , to not have confirmation of his demise, despite there being no evidence to the contrary, either.

…And yet, even so, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

_(but what was he even hoping for? That his brother had come to him, seen him in such a crazed state that matched his past_ own _? And been unable to stop him, from the sounds of things?_

_No, Desco—_ Desmond _deserved better. Just the thought of him becoming aware of all of this, with everything he had been through, and done, and_ protected _him from… It was nothing short of_ heartbreaking.

_~~He finally understood why he would have wanted to sacrifice everything for him~~ _ ~~alone _, without his brother ever knowing._~~ _)_

“Just… Just as long as he’s not responsible for the terrorizing of the city. …Not that I believe he has reason to anymore, what with his… _revenge_ on our father completed.”

Something inexplicable flashed in Luke’s eyes, though Hershel didn’t notice it.

“…I see now. When I first spoke of the evil genius that changed London, you both were afraid I was referring to Descole.”

He laced his fingers together up in front of his face, thoughtfully, as Hershel nodded, his stomach still churning. “…Right on the money, my boy.”

“I’m ashamed I didn’t think of that sooner,” Luke continued, shaking his head. “…but, well, I had long since put all that out of my mind, as I’m sure you no doubt understand.” He frowned sadly for a moment, before the expression dissipated. “However, rest assured that I have been doing extensive research into Future Layton’s methods and subordinates, as well as simply observing the city, and there have been no signs of him working alongside a masked, caped madman, nor using any type of heavy machinery to rule fear like Descole did; the Family does that for him all on their own. Therefore, unless the man is hiding about in utmost secrecy, like I said, I’m confident in saying that Layton is not involving him in any of his plans.”

“I… see…”

He would have to settle with that, Hershel supposed, sighing. He had meant what he’d said, that it was doubtful Desmond was involved, knowing what his ultimate goal had been, and how final his farewell had felt… but he _had_ worked behind the scenes before, with other people... _as_ other people. And he _was_ still a scientist, aside from an archeologist – who was to say he hadn’t been lured by the temptation of time travel as well, that he and his future self weren’t working together upon mutual agreement, or that there wasn’t some giant machine hidden away somewhere out there, ready to be unearthed to threaten people to do their bidding at a moment’s notice?

_(he had convinced Randall to work with him, to wreak havoc according to his plans, but would he really ask his_ brother _? Ask him to follow that same path of destruction, even if it was for both of their sakes?)_

“It’s not that I doubt the thoroughness of your research, but traces of him with Randall were nigh nonexistent in Monte’dor… I just hope we won’t have another unpleasant surprise on our hands.”

“…I understand. As do I.”

Still, he was relieved, the more he reflected on it all, yet the tinge of longing remained. Although Desmond had seemed to be bidding him goodbye forever, that day, a part of him, he knew, had always _yearned_ for a reunion, no matter how slim the chance… no matter how much his brother hadn’t seemed to wish for or expect it. At the very least, if there was _any_ sign that he had met with him again, in this future, before everything had gone wrong…

“Do you miss him, Professor?”

…then perhaps there was still hope, hope for a clue to find, _anything_.

_(but to this Hershel Layton, right here, right now, getting to see him again, getting to_ love _him again, would have prevented all of this in a_ heartbeat _.)_

“…I do.”

Hershel took a sip of his mostly-ignored tea, voice painfully quiet. It was unusual for him to feel so vulnerable, let alone speak it; there hadn’t been anyone to do so with, in so long. “But I… I carry that burden alone, as it is only right to… when we were hurt so deeply by all that happened there. By him, by Emmy, by Bronev… A-Aurora. Not just me, but Luke. You.”

Chest heavy with guilt, he gazed up at Luke, whose eyes were filled with surprise. “It has only been a year, but I know how much it weighs on him… How much their betrayal wounded him. How conflicted he still feels, despite his anger. It was truly a traumatic experience in every way imaginable, though you could hardly tell by looking at him now, and so if… _If_ , as hard as it is for me to believe, my obsession with changing the past is rooted in _that_ … in preventing everything that affected my family involving the Azran and that _dreaded_ organization……”

_(preventing Targent, preventing Jean Descole, preventing Randall and Akbadain… and perhaps, even Claire.)_

_“No…”_

Luke stared in stunned, numb silence, Hershel’s heart breaking as he watched the _horror_ dawn on his face. Distressed, he covered his mouth with his hand, gasping, as he processed it all, no doubt was flooded with years-old memories of that awful, _awful_ time. There was no way to know how much he had repressed them, or the degree to which they had contributed to how hardened, less _innocent_ he appeared compared to his past self, on top of everything that had happened with the professor, but what he _did_ know was what he saw before him: the terrible culmination of just what his decision to keep everything to himself might have _done_.

“Of _course_ , that was why you… I should have _realized_ how much you were suffering, I should have _done_ something sooner; how did I not _think_ of it—?!”

“ _No_ , my boy, it is _not_ your fault…!”

_(it was his, just like everything_ always _was)_

Before he knew it, Hershel had lurched to his feet, around the table, his arms reflexively reaching for Luke, pulling him to his body. The older boy flinched at the touch, yelping quietly in surprise, and it _killed_ him even more, killed him to wonder how long it had been since this child, young man or not, had been comforted, had been _held._ He was so tall, so much taller than the Luke he knew, and so _alien_ to him in so many ways, and yet, somehow, in that moment, Hershel could almost recognize him, could _feel_ his apprentice in him, the one who yet remained by his side just a few feet away, completely oblivious to this pain that could have awaited him in one, utterly _horrible_ future.

This couldn’t be allowed, he _wouldn’t_ allow it. And yet, here this Luke stood… undeniable, living _proof_ of his negligence.

“You were only _thirteen._ It is no fault but mine… Mine, for failing to be strong, for you and Flora. For losing sight of what I have always believed, that the past can never be changed, and that we cannot get back what is lost.”

Luke shuddered in his arms, choking out a sob. Hershel squeezed him tighter, his head lowered in _shame._

_(his brother had had no one, two times over, but_ he _had had so_ many _; what was_ his _excuse? He had befallen the same curse, cursed Luke to the same fate, in a twisted, broken cycle, that he had thought he had done everything he could to break out of.)_

“I never should have left you alone like that, my boy… I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

_(Such an act was yet another betrayal all on its own, and nothing could be_ crueler _.)_

“…You know, E-Emmy has been a famous newspaper photographer for a long time now; I couldn’t _bear_ to try to contact her, to see her break down over what’s _happened_ to you…… Professor, I-I… I _miss_ them, every single one of them… _you_ … so _m-much…”_

Hershel’s heart _stopped_ , what little was left of it crumbling away, and he slowly began to rub his hand up and down Luke’s trembling back, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I know, my boy,” he whispered, _devastated_. “I miss them too… all of them… and I’m so _sorry_ … So sorry that all I can do, is b-be here, now.”

Emmy… and Desmond, and Aurora, and his old high school friends… _Claire_ … So many of them he had hardly had time to know, before they were gone forever. The ones who hadn’t passed away, he still didn’t know when he would see them again, if at all. It _hurt_ , to lose so much, and not understand why; it never became any easier to grapple with, no matter how much he tried to make it appear otherwise. Who _wouldn’t_ wish to go back and change it all, he had to admit, if the chance was there? When any destruction wrought to reach the goal of time travel, they would never see again, in their alternate, better timeline?

But that destruction still remained, even if this future self of his eventually left it behind. _Luke_ was left behind, and everyone else who suffered watching him change so drastically, and hurt so many… no potential happiness of his was worth putting them through that pain. What would they even _say_? What would Desmond, Emmy, Randall say? The ones who had hurt him themselves, that he had _long_ since forgiven… what would they say, seeing him go down that dark path himself?

What would Claire say, if she could somehow see him, as well?

Even if in only one timeline of millions upon millions, Hershel would never wish them such despair. Not Luke, nor Flora, nor Emmy, nor his parents… nor his dear, lonely brother, who had seen even worse agonizing loss and betrayal in his own lifetime than even Hershel could _imagine_.

_(would that he could go back in time just once, just for a mere_ moment _, to tell that young Hershel Bronev how much he loved him, to say_ sorry, _and to_ thank _him.)_

That wasn’t _him_ , not the Professor Layton he strived to be. Not the _gentleman_ he wanted to be.

“…s’okay,” came the eventual, quiet whisper, mumbled so softly that he nearly missed it. Luke pressed his face deeper into his shoulder, almost longingly, and a moment later, Hershel could just barely hear the breath of _“better than never.”_

He held his former apprentice for a long time, listening to him slowly breathe in and out, and cry, thankful that somehow the world had stopped around them, in their secret little corner. In the couple scant hours, not even, that he had known the older boy, he never would have expected him to break down so easily, be so unbelievably _fragile,_ after the confidence he had displayed in the casino, and in everything he had done to bring them here… but a part of Hershel was grateful, albeit heartbroken. It was reassuring, a _relief_ , in a bittersweet way, to be able to connect with him, to _understand_ , and to apologize – and have that apology be _accepted_ , even if words would never be enough to make up for such a tragedy. Reassuring to know that Luke was never fully out of his reach, even after ten years of being apart from him, where so much, _too_ much, was different.

No matter how much time passed, they would always be Professor Layton and his apprentice, and that would never change.

His mind drifted back to the statue near Flatstone Street, the one that had so very much reminded him of them, it pained him to recall. Luke had insisted so _wholeheartedly_ that their bond was no less strong, no less enduring, and he was right, of _course_ he was – but in spite of all that, _this_ Layton, to the Luke in front of him now, had seemingly forgotten that, had left him all alone, even with that memory of what they had once been still forever there, for him to always see, and mourn.

Even if a better future awaited him and his apprentice, for _this_ Luke, it was already too late, and there was nothing that hurt him more.

“…I’m so _sorry_ , Luke.”

“I-It’s okay. You…… Y-You’ve lost a lot, haven’t you…”

It was both a question and a statement, one so obvious, though it seemed as if he was only just realizing it. “…So have you, my boy,” Hershel whispered, remembering Emmy’s fond teasing, Desmond’s kind smile, and a girl melting away into flames as one of her only friends watched on, _crying._ “So have you.”

All he could do anymore was try to make up for lost years, and make things better here and now, as best he could. Even if all that time would never end up coming back.

_(just as he hoped to do for_ him _, somehow, someday.)_

After what felt like an endless silence, the boy in his arms finally spoke again.

“…P-Professor, I’m… I-I…… There’s s-something I have t—”

“Professor…?”

Whatever Luke had been about to say was interrupted by the sound of a much younger, familiar, and _confused_ voice. Startled, Hershel jerked his attention out across the table towards Little Luke, who was staring at them, looking quite concerned. Next to him stood a portly man in black, who he recognized as the one who had delivered to them Future Luke’s second letter, his own expression equally as awkward as Luke’s.

“Ah, Luke…!”

Instantly, the older boy in his arms practically _jumped_ out of their embrace, stepping back hastily and quickly removing his hat to run his fingers through his hair, replacing it within mere seconds. His face was utterly blank, as if the last few minutes had never even happened. Hershel watched him, lingering on sudden lack of warmth from his body, throat clogged with bewilderment, and something else he couldn’t name, something wrong _(loss)_.

“Shipley, there you are,” Luke affirmed, adjusting his cap once more. “Did you manage to do some reconnaissance work in Chinatown like I asked?”

“…Uh, certainly did, Luke. I believe it’s enough for you all to make a move.”

“Excellent.”

Shipley moved away, intending to lead them elsewhere. Luke started to follow before turning back once more, flashing him a quick, apologetic smile, that did not reach his eyes. “Sorry, Professor, we’ll talk more later, after all this is over.”

Little Luke glanced between them, still clearly worried, but proceeded to trail after the others, leaving him behind.

“……wait…”

_What were you…… **who** …?_

Hershel stood alone, staring at Future Luke’s retreating back, feeling very cold, as he _(urgently, desperately)_ wondered, just as he had on the Bostonius, if he wasn’t making a mistake.


End file.
